He’s high, he’s the devil’s favourite son and they will never lock him up again or beat the shit out of him and into him. He’s a man. He has grown to manhood in spite of the bastards and bastardesses. Better than eating, better than drinking, better than dope or screwing or anything. He hasn’t screwed a woman yet. All he knows of women is from the juicy pictures in the magazines, passed from cell to cell, girls with their backs in suspender belts, one leg hoisted to show the pleat of their arses, or frontwise slung back over a table to show the pleat of their cunts, their throats waiting to be slit.
Soon he is smoochy and he wants to kiss a woman and get kissed. He debates about a name. He’ll call her Veronica, no he won’t, he’ll call her Trish. He wants to hear a woman say, ‘I like your moustache.’ He feels her feeling the hard blunt hairs, up there in the dark, in the painted flame and him feeling her back, up there on the edge of the empty forgotten woods.
When the fire had died down completely he sat trying to figure out where he would go next.
Cissy’s friends have foregathered to sympathise and to wait with her for the guard to come. They sit around the kitchen table lamenting that beautiful car that she had saved for, her chocolate ornament, her child, her joy.
‘I even called it Cadbury,’ she says and again she weeps, wondering aloud where it is and when it will be returned to her and in what state it will be.
‘It’ll be found . . . they always find them,’ one says.
‘He’s evil, I know he’s evil,’ Agnes says, Agnes whose mother asked her to pop in on her way home to see if Cissy was all right.
At the mention of that word they shudder.
‘I’ll tell you something I didn’t even tell my own mother,’ Agnes says and in a hushed voice describes how she and a group of girls were practising Camougie one evening in the sports field and O’Kane stood there watching them and his eyes met hers and the queer look from him sent shivers down her spine.
‘Shivers,’ Oona said darkly, because they were all women and they knew what Agnes meant.
‘Weren’t you lucky you weren’t in the car ... or where would you be now Cissy?’
‘Tied up somewhere.’
‘Your throat slit . . .’
‘I heard that he can make himself invisible . . . you can go up into your bedroom and find him there and not even know how he got in.’
‘Oh Immaculate Heart of Mary.’
‘If the guards did their job we’d be safe and Cadbury would be outside the door.’
‘It’s not the guards’ fault . . . it’s the government’s . . . cuts cuts cuts everywhere.’
‘Tell you what,’ Oona says, ‘why don’t we get down on our knees and pray . . . pray for two things, that Cadbury will be brought back safe and that Michen O’Kane will be sent back to one of them institutions.’
Hoodlums
O’Kane is alone in an empty chapel, white walls, the red flame of the lamp, a bare altar, by the holy water font a poster of Jesus in white with a gold halo around him.
He had gone in hoping to find some Holy Mary on her knees, to get a bit of money. He hasn’t eaten for two days and his feet and his socks are soaking wet. Empty. Fucking empty. Nothing for it but to raid the box where the money for the candles is put. He finds a screwdriver round the back, in a shed, where they kept tools and a lawnmower and begins to prise the metal mouth open, bit by bit, tongues of twisted brass curling out like an opened cunt. He keeps hacking at it until the hole is big enough to put his hand in. He rummages. The metal teeth snarl at him and he snarls back. Fucking nothing. Two coins, one of them foreign. He goes pitch and toss with them on the tiles of the floor when in walks a kid, a kid not unlike himself, younger and with rosy cheeks.
‘Howdie, Gunner,’ the kid says.
‘Who’re you?’
‘Not telling.’
‘Little gick . . . got a fag?’
‘They’re all shit scared of you . . . they’re locking their
Soon he is smoochy and he wants to kiss a woman and get kissed. He debates about a name. He’ll call her Veronica, no he won’t, he’ll call her Trish. He wants to hear a woman say, ‘I like your moustache.’ He feels her feeling the hard blunt hairs, up there in the dark, in the painted flame and him feeling her back, up there on the edge of the empty forgotten woods.
When the fire had died down completely he sat trying to figure out where he would go next.
Cissy’s friends have foregathered to sympathise and to wait with her for the guard to come. They sit around the kitchen table lamenting that beautiful car that she had saved for, her chocolate ornament, her child, her joy.
‘I even called it Cadbury,’ she says and again she weeps, wondering aloud where it is and when it will be returned to her and in what state it will be.
‘It’ll be found . . . they always find them,’ one says.
‘He’s evil, I know he’s evil,’ Agnes says, Agnes whose mother asked her to pop in on her way home to see if Cissy was all right.
At the mention of that word they shudder.
‘I’ll tell you something I didn’t even tell my own mother,’ Agnes says and in a hushed voice describes how she and a group of girls were practising Camougie one evening in the sports field and O’Kane stood there watching them and his eyes met hers and the queer look from him sent shivers down her spine.
‘Shivers,’ Oona said darkly, because they were all women and they knew what Agnes meant.
‘Weren’t you lucky you weren’t in the car ... or where would you be now Cissy?’
‘Tied up somewhere.’
‘Your throat slit . . .’
‘I heard that he can make himself invisible . . . you can go up into your bedroom and find him there and not even know how he got in.’
‘Oh Immaculate Heart of Mary.’
‘If the guards did their job we’d be safe and Cadbury would be outside the door.’
‘It’s not the guards’ fault . . . it’s the government’s . . . cuts cuts cuts everywhere.’
‘Tell you what,’ Oona says, ‘why don’t we get down on our knees and pray . . . pray for two things, that Cadbury will be brought back safe and that Michen O’Kane will be sent back to one of them institutions.’
Hoodlums
O’Kane is alone in an empty chapel, white walls, the red flame of the lamp, a bare altar, by the holy water font a poster of Jesus in white with a gold halo around him.
He had gone in hoping to find some Holy Mary on her knees, to get a bit of money. He hasn’t eaten for two days and his feet and his socks are soaking wet. Empty. Fucking empty. Nothing for it but to raid the box where the money for the candles is put. He finds a screwdriver round the back, in a shed, where they kept tools and a lawnmower and begins to prise the metal mouth open, bit by bit, tongues of twisted brass curling out like an opened cunt. He keeps hacking at it until the hole is big enough to put his hand in. He rummages. The metal teeth snarl at him and he snarls back. Fucking nothing. Two coins, one of them foreign. He goes pitch and toss with them on the tiles of the floor when in walks a kid, a kid not unlike himself, younger and with rosy cheeks.
‘Howdie, Gunner,’ the kid says.
‘Who’re you?’
‘Not telling.’
‘Little gick . . . got a fag?’
‘They’re all shit scared of you . . . they’re locking their
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